Murder in Belleville

“Attends, Anais,” Aimee said lying on her stomach, peering around the cement divider near the Credit Lyonnais.

She saw the Twingo, parked illegally on the opposite curb, and a dark-suited man watching in all directions. If she and Anais could join passersby and cross to the taxi stop on rue du Faubourg du Temple, they’d escape. Traffic idled at the intersection. Tree-bordered Canal Saint Martin lay in the distance.

Aimee’s hopes fell as Anais moaned again. No way could she get her up and across to the taxi stop. A couple emerged from an apartment building, laughing and kissing each other, as they walked to the Metro.

Aimee crawled around the divider, then helped navigate Anais behind some bushes. Cardboard was piled next to the kiosk, hiding them from view.

“Keep low. I’ll get a taxi,” she said taking off her sweater and covering Anais. Aimee shivered in her damp silk shirt and spread a piece of cardboard across a major puddle. She crawled across to the curb, then crouched behind a plane tree. When another couple walked by she stood up, kept her head turned and crossed the street abreast of them.

By the time the taxi driver, to whom she’d promised a good tip, pulled up on the sidewalk to pick up Anais, the driver of the Twingo had noticed them. He jumped in the car and started his engine.

“Lose that car,” Aimee said to the taxi driver.

Anais reached in her purse and pulled out a wad of franc notes. “Here, use this.” She shoved them in Aimee’s hand.

“Here’s a hundred francs,” Aimee said. “There’s more if we make it out of the has quartier without our friend.”

“Quinze Villa Georgina,” Anais managed, then collapsed on the seat. Aimee loosened the tourniquet, glad to see the bleeding had stopped, and elevated Anais’s leg.

As they sped up the Belleville streets toward Pare des Buttes Chaumont, Aimee slouched down. The streetlights flickered through the taxi windows. Cafes and bistros held lively crowds despite the cold, wet April night. Aimee paused, remembering the mailbox with “E. Grandet” on it.

“Why did you meet Sylvie?” Aimee asked.

“I’d like to forget about it,” Anais said, holding back her sobs.

“Anais, of course it’s painful, but if you don’t talk to me,” Aimee said, “how can I help?”

Poor Anais. Maybe she felt guilty. Didn’t wives harbor thoughts of killing their husband’s mistress no matter how civilized the arrangement?

“Sylvie arranged to meet me,” Anais said, rubbing her eyes. “Said she didn’t trust telephones.”

“What happened?”

“The entry door was open,” she said. Anais licked her knuckles, rubbed red raw in the dirt. “I went upstairs. The landing was spattered with pigeon droppings.”

“The building looked ready to demolish,” Aimee said. “Did Sylvie live there?” Why would a woman who drove a Mercedes live in a dump like that?

“Sylvie told me to meet her there. That’s all I know,” Anais said, her eyes downcast. “We argued right away.”

“You argued?” Aimee said.

The lights of Belleville blinked as they wound up the hilly streets. Aimee poked her head up, but saw no Twingo behind them;

“My fault. I got angry,” Anais said, shaking her head. “All those years of lying … I couldn’t calm down. Sylvie kept going to the window. She made me nervous. I got mad and ran out the door.”

Aimee wondered what Sylvie had been trying to tell Anais. Sylvie could have gone to the window to see if she’d been followed or was afraid Anais had.

“Was Philippe aware you were meeting her?” she asked.

“Why should he be? Philippe told me he finished with her months ago,” Anais said. “Things between us were getting better.”

Aimee stared at Anais. Had she gone to make sure he’d kept his word?

“Why did you want my help?”

“Call me a coward,” Anais said, biting her lip. “I’m ashamed I thought she wanted money. But she asked me to forgive her.”

“You mean forgive her for the past?”

“Told me how sorry she felt over things escalating,” Anais said, breathing quickly.

“Escalating?”

“That’s the term the pute used. Can you believe it?” Anais shook her head. She leaned back and took more deep breaths.

By the time they’d reached the angle where the streets met at Jourdain, the driver had definitely lost the Twingo. But he circled the winding streets around Saint Jean Baptiste Church several times to be safe.

The taxi followed the terraced streets intersected by lantern-lined wide stone stairs. Nineteenth-century rooflines faded below them. At rue de la Duee, they turned into narrow, cobblestoned Villa Georgina. This little- known area, she realized, was one of the most exclusive and expensive pockets of Belleville.

“I’m hiring you,” Anais said, “to tell me what this means.”

She reached in her bag, pulling out the Fat’ma and another wad of francs. “Consider this a retainer.”

“The Fat’ma?” Aimee said, as Anais put the bronze, blue-beaded talisman in her hand.

Anais stuffed the francs in Aimee’s pocket.

“Maybe this means nothing, but I want to know who killed her,” Anais said. “Find out.” Her eyes shuttered.

“Anais, talk to Philippe. You’re in deep water,” Aimee said, exasperated by her reaction. “If they blew up Sylvie’s car and saw her pass something to you …”

“That’s why you need to keep it,” Anais said, her eyes black and serious.

Too bad this hadn’t helped Sylvie, Aimee thought.

“My little Simone will think I’ve forgotten her,” Anais said, worry in her voice. “I always put her to bed.”

Lights blazed brightly from the upstairs windows as the taxi pulled up.

“Qnelle catastrophe—Philippe’s hosting a reception for the Algerian Trade Delegation!”

“Worry about that later,” Aimee said. “Look, Anais, we’ve broken a chunk of the penal code tonight, I want to stop while I’m still free on the street.”

“You’re in this with me,” Anais said, her voice cracking. “I’m sorry I dragged you in, but you can’t stop.”

True. But Aimee wanted to run into the dark wet night and not look back.

“Right now,” Aimee said, “we’ve got to get you inside.”

She turned to the taxi driver and slipped him another of An-ais’s hundred-franc notes. “Please wait for me.”

She helped Anais to a cobalt blue side door, set back along a narrow passage. After several knocks a buxom woman opened the door, silhouetted against the light. Aimee couldn’t see her face but heard her gasp.

“Madame … ca va?”

“Vivienne, don’t let Simone see me,” Anais said, as though accustomed to giving orders. “Or anyone. Get me something to put over this.”

Vivienne stood rooted to the spot. “Monsieur le Ministre …

“Vite, Vivienne!” Anais barked. “Let us in.”

Mobilized into action, Vivienne opened the door and shepherded them inside. She thrust an apron at Anais.

“Help me get my jacket off,” Anais said.

Vivienne gingerly removed the blood-stained jacket and dropped it on the kitchen floor.

Anais staggered and clutched the counter, where trays of hors d’oeuvres were lined up. Vivienne’s lips parted in fear, and she clutched her starched maid’s uniform.

“But you must go to I’hopital, Madame,” she said.

“Vinegar,” Anais whispered, exhausted by her efforts.

“What, Madame?”